


Seven Days in June - the DVD extras

by fourth_rose



Series: Seven Days in June [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco in the Muggle World, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, written before book 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_rose/pseuds/fourth_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extras for my Harry/Draco fic "Seven Days in June" (post-Hogwarts, written before book 7) - missing scenes, little future ficlets, alternate POVs, and so on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several readers asked about what happened between chapter 11 (which ends with Harry coming back to Draco's flat in the evening) and chapter 12 (which begins with Harry waking up in Draco's bed the next morning). Here is the answer, seen through Draco's eyes for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I neither share nor approve of the anti-German sentiments mentioned in this story. I don't want to offend anyone, but since many readers told me they liked the realistic description of Vienna in"Seven Days in June" - well, that aspect is a part of it, I'm afraid... ;-)

_June 21st, 2005 (evening)_

 

 

Draco let the door of his flat fall shut behind him, leaned against it and recited an assortment of the foulest profanities he'd learned during his seven years in Vienna. In the course of less than forty-eight hours, he'd got soaked to his skin _twice_ (first in Prague, then in Vienna, since bad weather usually moved from the west to the east), been yelled at five times, been forced to deal with three separate customers having their wallets stolen because they had, in spite of several warnings, been stupid enough to carry them around in their pockets, and finally got stuck in a traffic jam on the last few kilometres before they'd reached Vienna, which had resulted in a bunch of super-grumpy tourists and, consequently, hardly any tips at the end of the day.

All his Austrian colleagues had warned him that German tourists were notoriously stingy anyway, but he'd written it off as another manifestation of the infamous Austro-German 'love to hate' relationship. He'd never been able to figure that one out - the way Austrians and Germans spoke about each other, you'd think they'd never cross the border between their countries in either direction, yet Austria was flooded with German tourists during high season, and even a zero-point-five percent drop in their number sent the Austrian Chamber of Commerce into hysterics and made them spend millions on marketing campaigns in Germany. Draco had learned to accept it as something you had to grow up with to fully understand - as an outsider to the whole thing, his only explanation was that Austrians and Germans _enjoyed_ despising each other and tried to spend as much time in each other's company as possible to make sure they did it properly.

There was no denying the fact that the group of managers from Berlin he'd been forced to endure for the last two days had been insufferable, though. Still, he was convinced that it had more to do with the fact that they were managers than with their nationality (although Draco _had_ been highly affronted when one of them had told him that he had trouble understanding Draco's "cute" Austrian accent and asked him to speak English instead - which he, in turn, spoke with such a thick Northern German accent that Draco had trouble understanding _him_ ). Managers were, according to the unofficial tour guide ranking system of obnoxiousness, the second worst type of customers. The only ones who easily topped them were teachers - Draco had once guided a group of university professors and was still convinced that he hadn't come that close to committing homicide ever since the night he'd almost killed Dumbledore.

Now, however, he'd finally made it back to the peace and quiet of his home, even though he was wet and cold, Max had coughed up a hairball on the coffee table, and Ali's cheerful voice on his answering machine asked in a smug tone that made him want to strangle her, " _Na, mein Schatz, wie unerträglich waren die Preußen?_ "

Lovingly selecting another colourful specimen from his growing collection of Viennese swearwords, Draco dropped his backpack, kicked off his shoes and carelessly shed his wet clothes on the way to the bathroom. The one thing that would make the world a brighter place right now was a long, hot shower.

He still avoided looking into the mirror whenever he entered the bathroom. It was an old habit he found impossible to shake off even though he'd got used to the sight of his black hair by now. There even were days when he rather liked the idea that this was a bit of his mum's magic that would always stay with him, even here in this place that made all magic die a slow, silent death over time. Yet sometimes he was still caught unawares by the sight that greeted him in the mirror, when deep down he was still expecting to see the icy blond that had always been the sign of a true Malfoy.

Not that being a true Malfoy still had any meaning, but it was a matter of principle.

Great, now he was feeling depressed on top of everything else.

Mentally calling himself to order, Draco stepped under the spray of scalding water. He'd learned the hard way that brooding got him nowhere, so he hadn't really done it for years, and he definitely wasn't going to start now just because Harry bloody Potter had considered it necessary to bring the ghosts of the past back to his doorstep.

Draco idly wondered how much he himself must have changed if Potter had become almost unrecognisable in the course of the last eight years. Not so much because of his appearance, although he'd thankfully left the adolescent gangliness behind that Draco remembered so well. Character-wise, though, he seemed to have remarkably little in common with the Golden Boy of Gryffindor House Draco had known and despised back then. Potter still had his rash temper and his infuriating holier-than-thou attitude, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that Draco couldn't remember from their school days, and a way of suddenly going quiet and staring off into the distance that indicated Draco wasn't the only one trying to keep old ghosts at bay.

And of course he was gay, although Draco had known _that_ bit for ages. To the best of his knowledge, most of wizarding Britain still didn't have a clue that their favourite hero played for the other team, but Pansy and her highly efficient gossip network that covered half the continent had spread the rumour all over the wizarding quarters of Central Europe years ago. Draco got a mouthful of shampoo when he started snickering at the thought what Potter would say if he ever found out.

Toying with Potter's obvious attraction had backfired a bit, though.

With a sigh, Draco turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, shivering when the cool air hit his wet skin. He'd suspected for quite a while that his tastes ran more towards his own gender, long before poor Ali had considered it necessary to save him from himself _again_ \- but it was one thing to find out that you were indeed somewhat on the queer side, and quite another to realise that you might be starting to find the bloody Boy Who Lived mildly appealing. The former was something that would take some getting used to, but the latter was wrong on too many levels to even begin counting them.

He was too tired to properly think about this tonight, though; it would have to wait until he didn't feel like dropping dead on the spot any longer. Besides, it hardly mattered any more, now that even Potter had realised that his puppy eyes weren't getting him anywhere and had gone back to where he belonged.

Where he belonged, and Draco didn't.

_Fuck_. Draco knew only too well that way lay madness. Homesickness was the one thing he would never, ever permit himself; there was too much of a risk that he wouldn't be able to ever shake it off if he started going down that route. The past was past, what was done was done, and he was _not_ going to start feeling miserable again just because of Potter. He had learned to count his blessings, to be content with the life he was leading, and he would not allow Potter to ruin it for him. Let Potter find someone else to entertain him in his cosy little closet; Draco had too much to lose to risk playing with fire.

Now thoroughly ill-tempered, Draco quickly dried himself off, brushed his teeth, then threw on a pair of washed-out track suit bottoms and headed for bed. He'd just got comfortable when the door bell rang.

Draco tried to ignore it, but the ringing went on. Cursing under his breath, he finally stumbled out of bed again and went to get the house intercom, almost tripping over Max on the way.

Over the intercom, a male voice asked him to open the door because the speaker had allegedly forgotten his key in his flat. In return, Draco barked a few choice words about prospective burglars needing to be a lot more creative if they wanted people to fall for their tricks. It actually made him feel a bit better.

Only when he crawled back under the covers did he realise that his reply had been in English.

This hadn't happened in years - speaking German had become second nature to him, so much that he even spoke it with the cat these days when they were alone in the flat. He couldn't even remember when he'd last slipped back into his native tongue without meaning to.

The list of things Potter was to be blamed for just kept getting longer.

In spite of his exhaustion, it was difficult to fall asleep with the thunderstorm raging outside and the wind rattling the shutters of his bedroom windows. Just when he'd almost managed to doze off at last, the doorbell rang again.

This time, Draco didn't think twice; he kicked the covers aside and made a dash for the intercom, grimly resolved to call the police if that bloke was _again_ trying to get into the house.

" _Was ist jetzt schon wieder?_ "

There was dead silence at the other end for a moment. When an answer finally came through the static crackling of the intercom, it wasn't the same voice as before.

"It's me - Harry. Can I come in?"

Draco stared at the receiver, at a loss for words. He reached for the button that opened the main entrance door without even realising that he was doing it; by the time the rational part of his brain had caught up with the events, he had already heard the click of the front door opening over the intercom.

He'd just let Potter into the house.

Potter had come _back_.

Draco shook his head and pulled himself together. There was no reason to act as if he'd been hit over the head just because Harry Potter had, for some stupid reason or other, decided to grace him with his presence again. He would open the door and firmly ask Potter what the hell he was playing at, and he hoped for Potter's sake that he had a _very_ good answer to the question.

Draco returned to the bedroom to pull on a t-shirt, since opening the door bare-chested didn't seem like such a good idea right now. His brain had apparently switched to autopilot, because it wondered in a strangely detached way why it was that while he'd quickly got used to calling his former arch-enemy by his given name, he would always remain 'Potter' in his mind.

Then he went back to the door and peered through the peephole to check whether Potter had already made it up five floors plus the two odd ones between ground floor and first floor that the Austrians insisted on not counting. No matter how many years Draco spent in Vienna, the reason for adding a _Mezzanin_ or a _Hochparterre_ floor to a perfectly normal house would always elude him. He couldn't even tell the difference between these two - some older houses had both, some had either, but modern architects thankfully seemed to have abandoned the concept and why in Merlin's name was he contemplating building quirks right now?

Potter was standing in the corridor, looking every inch like a drowned rat. His clothes were soaking wet and dripping on the cracked tiles of the corridor, his hair was plastered to his head, and little rivulets of water were running over his face. He was flushed and panting as if he'd sprinted up the stairs without pausing for breath.

Draco rolled his eyes. Seriously, were Gryffindors able to do _anything_ in their lives without a double helping of drama?

Potter was reaching for the buzzer, but Draco opened the door before he could press it. "Harry, what the hell - "

That was as far as he got. Before he even knew what was happening, Potter grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled so hard that Draco very nearly lost his balance. He opened his mouth to protest, but never got a word out because Potter chose that exact moment to kiss him.

Draco froze. What the fuck was Potter playing at - hadn't he, Draco, been clear enough already that something like this could never, _must_ never happen? Who did Potter think he was, barging in here and kissing him as if -

...as if he were a drowning man clinging to a lifeline, holding Draco so tight that it became difficult to breathe, with the clammy wetness of his shirt and jeans soaking through Draco's clothes, his hair a tangled, dripping mess under Draco's hands and his tongue wet and warm in Draco's mouth...

It wasn't until he heard a little gasp from the general direction of Mrs Vlk's flat that Draco came back to his senses. He turned his head, a part of himself mourning the sudden loss of contact when the heat of Potter's skin against his was replaced by the cool air of the corridor. Sure enough, Mrs Vlk, who had probably been watching them through her peephole the whole time, was standing in the open door with an expression on her face that made it clear she was already drafting a list of possible recipients for this juicy bit of gossip. Her eyes met Draco's, and for a moment he could have sworn that the nosy old bag _winked_ at him before she disappeared back into her flat.

Potter seemed caught between embarrassment and laughter, which, Draco had to admit, wasn't a bad look on him. He almost felt like laughing too when he thought about the view they must have presented with Potter looking like something the cat brought in and him in his ratty track suit bottoms and faded t-shirt, which had become uncomfortably wet and clingy, trying to eat each other's faces while the unmistakeable hardness in Potter's jeans was pressed firmly against his own and fuck, he was so, _so_ screwed.

Draco took a deep breath. He was in over his head already, and it would turn out badly anyway, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. He couldn't even remember when he'd last allowed himself to act on pure instinct, but it felt strangely liberating to finally throw caution to the winds and, for once, do exactly as he pleased.

Potter followed immediately when Draco took his hand and stepped back over the threshold of his flat. By the time they reached the living room, he was barefoot and shirtless and had somehow managed to pull Draco's t-shirt over his head without letting go of him for as much as a second. The warmth of his bare skin against Draco's was a heady, almost intoxicating sensation, and Draco hung on with all his might, touching and kissing and _feeling_ until his head was spinning from it.

"Bedroom?" he got out between two kisses, because ending up on the living room floor didn't seem too inviting. Potter had other ideas, though. "Too far," he murmured against Draco's lips and pushed him rather unceremoniously into the armchair. Draco usually didn't appreciate being manhandled, but every thought of protesting disappeared when Potter yanked Draco's trousers down over his hips and sank to his knees in front of him.

Draco let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He wanted to neither see nor think, wanted to focus on nothing but the sensation of Potter's hands on his body, Potter's mouth on his cock without worrying about implications or consequences. Right now there was nothing of importance but tantalising touches and wet heat, friction and pressure and suction and _fuck_ , he wasn't going to last a minute if Potter kept this up. The bastard knew what he was doing, though; he kept him tethering right on the edge until Draco felt he was about to explode. He dug his fingers into Potter's hair, trying to egg him on, and Potter finally took pity on him and did something with his tongue that made tiny white lights burst behind Draco's closed eyelids. He clenched his teeth as he came, since he hadn't put up any Silencing Charms and was perfectly sure Mrs Vlk had her ear pressed against the wall, and why on earth was he thinking of his mummy of a neighbour while Potter was sucking him off?

When he finally opened his eyes, dizzy and panting, Potter had backed away and was busy wiggling out of his soaked jeans. The realisation sobered Draco somewhat; so far things had gone phenomenally well, but while it wasn't that difficult to get a blow job, there was every chance Potter would want to fuck him now, and he really wasn't sure whether he was prepared for -

Then Potter was gloriously naked and leaned over Draco, who was still sprawled in the armchair, until he was pressed up against him, so close that Draco felt Potter's heartbeat hammering against his ribs and his hard cock pressing against the soft flesh of his inner thigh. Potter began to rock against him, and Draco, who understood with some relief that he wasn't going to go for the full program just now, quickly worked a hand in between them.

It was a bit weird at first to touch Potter's cock - the feeling was both strange and familiar, and the angle was all wrong, but he seemed to do okay when he started stroking because Potter made a low, desperate sound deep in his throat and pressed his hips down, pushing into Draco's hand. He was even further gone than Draco had been, since it took no more than a few firm strokes to bring him off. Potter's nails dug into Draco's shoulders as he came with a drawn-out groan, his muscles tightening and thick, warm liquid spilling over Draco's fingers and stomach.

He was now leaning heavily against Draco, chest rising and falling rapidly and his breath loud and harsh in Draco's ear. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but Draco felt too boneless to move. Potter's face was mere inches from his, and the way Potter looked with his flushed cheeks, swollen lips and the little beads of sweat that trickled down his forehead was probably the sexiest thing Draco had ever seen in his life.

So he _was_ gay, after all.

And he'd just had sex with Harry Potter, whom he'd loathed all his life. What had he been thinking?

Well, at least it was quite obvious what he'd been thinking _with_.

Then Potter gave him a lopsided grin that had a hint of embarrassment to it and asked, in a voice so low and raspy that it went straight to Draco's cock (which should have been next to impossible just a few minutes after coming so hard that he saw stars), "Bedroom?"

Draco grinned back and gave him a shove. "After you."

He took his time when he scrambled to his feet so that he got the full view of Potter's backside as he followed him to the bedroom. He might regret this tomorrow, but right now, tomorrow could go screw itself.

Besides, perhaps there was something to the idea that you should keep your favourite enemy _really_ close to make sure you did that loathing thing properly.

 

 

 

 

 

FIN


	2. Land der Berge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny future ficlet, set a little more than a month after the events of "Seven Days in June", in which Harry finally gets to see that sunrise over the Alps.
> 
> The title - meaning "land of mountains" - is the first line of the Austrian national anthem. For the geography geeks: Harry is standing on the Pasterze glacier, looking at the Großglockner, the highest mountain in the Austrian Alps.

_July 31st, 2005_  
  
  
  
 _Happy bloody birthday to me_ , Harry thought grumpily as he knotted his scarf more tightly around his neck. True, he'd spent many miserable birthdays before, but freezing to death on a giant slab of ice at an ungodly hour of the morning still wasn't what he'd had in mind for the day he turned twenty-five.  
  
He'd never been to the mountains before, and he'd decided at first glance that he really didn't understand what anyone could see in them. He was surrounded by huge, rugged masses of grey-black rock that rose up into the dark sky, their flanks dotted with flecks of snow and wisps of fog that seemed caught on their jagged surfaces. The effect was oppressive, as if the towering crags above him were weighing him down, making it difficult to breathe. The icy wind ripped at his hair and stung in his eyes, and he already felt his toes go numb from the biting cold of the glacier underneath his feet. Even the glacier, which Harry had been quite curious about, was a huge disappointment: he'd heard about glittering masses of shining, blue-green ice, but the glacier that filled the murky, dead valley was almost completely black, covered in dust and ground-up rock that made it look as dirty as a week-old snow heap in a big city.  
  
With a sigh, Harry looked up to the top of the highest of the mountains around him, scanning the pyramid-shaped peak for something that might justify the way people kept waxing about it. No such luck, though; the mountain remained just what it was, a looming bulk of dark, snow-flecked rock, ugly and forbidding. Harry was about to voice his thoughts, but he was stopped by a reddish glow that suddenly tinted the crest of the mountain.   
  
Harry stared as the glow intensified while the light of the rising sun slowly crept into the valley. The peaks and ridges above flared up in every shade of red, from deepest purple to golden orange; the huge mountain right in front of him which had been a mass of black and grey only minutes before now shone like a beacon, the snowfields near the top shimmering in the rosy glow that was reflected by the clouds above. Down on the glacier, the ice began to glitter blue through the layers of dust and dirt, but Harry barely noticed it; he was looking up, mesmerized, at the mountains that now longer radiated heaviness and menace, but seemed to drag him upward until he almost felt as if he could fly right up to their snow-covered peaks.  
  
Around him, the valley that had been deathly silent before was slowly waking up; he heard the cries of birds overhead and the distant whistles of marmots from the sandy slopes right above the glacier. Still, Harry kept staring upwards, not caring that his eyes were watering in the cold wind, until the orange colour of the sky faded into pale blue and the rosy tint of the snowfields was replaced by a blinding, brilliant white. He caught himself desperately wishing to be up there, to stand on the highest peak and overlook a landscape of snow-topped mountains that expanded beyond the horizon in every direction.  
  
When he finally tore his gaze away and turned his head, Draco was watching him with a curious expression. "Well?"  
  
Harry took a deep breath. "It's..." He faltered, realizing that he had no idea what to say; there just didn't seem to be a way to put into words what he'd just experienced.   
  
Draco smiled, a smile that lit up his face in a way that reminded Harry of the snowfields flaring to life in the light of the rising sun. "Yes, I know." He held out a gloved hand towards Harry. "Come on, we've got a long hike ahead of us."  
  
To his own surprise, Harry realized that he couldn't wait.  
  
  
  
  
  
FIN   
  



	3. Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another future ficlet, set six months after the events of "Seven Days in June".

_December 23rd, 2005_  
  
  
  
When Draco came home in the evening, wet and cold and grumpy after a long day at work, he was greeted by the sight of Harry Potter decorating a huge, slightly lopsided Christmas tree.  
  
He shrugged off his damp coat, stepped out of his soaked boots and approached Harry, who hadn't noticed him yet, with a sort of wary interest.  
  
"Potter, what on earth are you still doing here?"  
  
Harry turned around and gave him a brilliant smile. "I'm decorating the tree I bought for Christmas. You said you weren't going to get one, so I thought..."  
  
Draco cut him off. "I can see what you're doing. When I asked what you were still doing here, I meant to ask why you were still here in the first place."  
  
Harry's smile faded. "Don't you want me here for Christmas?"  
  
"That's not the point. Do I have to remind you that you have the whole Weasel clan plus extensions awaiting the return of their favourite hero for the holidays? You know, those redheads who fawn over your every move and don't know that the real reason behind your frequent trips to the continent is the fact that you're shagging an exiled ex-Death Eater?"  
  
"I sent them an owl three days ago." Harry was watching him with an expression Draco couldn't interpret. "I wrote that I'd stay here for the holidays. I whish I could have told them why, but -"  
  
Draco held up his hand. "Harry, we've been over this a dozen times. I will not let you disclose my whereabouts to anyone in wizarding Britain. I know the war is over, but _you_ know my reasons for not going back. Everyone there thinks I'm dead, and I'm determined to keep it that way, even if it means that I'll have to spend the rest of my life among Muggles."  
  
Harry sighed. "I know, I know. Stop fretting, I didn't tell them anything about you."  
  
"Then what _did_ you tell them?"  
  
"That I like it here and want to spend a quiet Christmas for a change. I said I need to recharge my batteries - I could practically see Arthur glow with pride because he got the reference when I read his reply today."  
  
He took a parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Draco. "Arthur says they all understand. I feel a bit bad about lying to them, but I'm afraid it can't be helped. Ron sent me this drawing Bess made for me, so I guess they really aren't too angry with me."  
  
Draco eyed the parchment critically. Weasley's three year-old daughter had a very colourful drawing style, but the result looked a bit... disturbing to him.  
  
"What's that figure in the centre? It looks like someone tied to a torture table! Did Granger pass on some kind of trauma to the poor child during her pregnancy?"  
  
Harry burst into a fit of giggles. "It's a Christmas drawing, you git! That's baby Jesus in the manger!" He picked the parchment out of Draco's hand. "I think it's sweet. Ron informed me that she wants me to put it right next to my Christmas tree, and that's what I'll do."  
  
"Your Christmas tree?" Draco did his best to sound haughty. "Last time I checked, this was still _my_ flat."  
  
Harry's face fell. "Do you mean you don't want me to stay over the holidays?"  
  
He was so obviously hurt that Draco couldn't help wrapping his hand around Harry's neck. "Of course I want you to, idiot. I just didn't think you'd ever consider staying."  
  
Harry, clearly relieved, grinned broadly. "It's going to be great. Just you and me - we could make love under the Christmas tree. You know, on a bearskin rug or something."  
  
"With the Weaselspawn's baby Jesus watching? You're a filthy pervert." Although, Draco had to admit, the idea of Harry under the tree, clad in nothing but the soft glow of candlelight, had a lot of appeal. "Besides, I doubt I have a bearskin rug lying around in my flat."  
  
"We could transfigure the doormat."  
  
Now it was Draco's turn to burst out laughing. "I guess we could do that. Still...," he looked at Harry, his expression turning serious again, "I heard you talk to Granger on the phone last week, and you told her you'd be home for Christmas. Why did you suddenly change your mind?"  
  
Harry blushed crimson. "Well, I - I actually didn't."  
  
Draco frowned. "I'm not following you."  
  
"I wanted to spend the holidays at home." Harry took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what he was going to say. "It's just that - I realized that I didn't have to go back to England to do so."  
  
Sometimes, Draco reckoned as he reached up to pick a bit of tinsel out of Harry's hair, Christmas would sneak up on you when you were least expecting it.  
  
  
  
  
  
FIN  
  



	4. Dinner for Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fic's title probably won't make sense if you don't know that the British sketch "Dinner for One" is traditionally shown on TV each New Year's Eve in the German-speaking countries. 
> 
> Harry quotes the punch line towards the end of the story - it's something you probably can't avoid if you celebrate New Year in Vienna. (You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1v4BYV-YvA)

_December 31st, 2007_  
  
  
  
Harry had never had a high opinion of Divination, but even Professor Trelawney's tea leaves had seemed more reliable than this. How was one supposed to read the future in a misshapen piece of lead?  
  
Ali, however, eyed the strange silvery thing she'd just fished out of the water bowl on the table with great interest. "Let's see... that blob on top could be a head, and the long bit a fin - perhaps a whale?"  
  
Harry checked the list that had come with the package of lead piglets, toadstools, and shamrocks Ali had bought. "Whales are not on the list. Try again."  
  
"Oh, put the list away, Harry, where's the fun in that?" Ali gave him an encouraging wink. "You're supposed to use your imagination! What could a whale mean?"  
  
Harry grinned at this, remembering the amount of imagination he and Ron had used for their Divination homework over the years. Draco looked up from the puddle of bubbling silvery metal on the spoon he was currently holding over a candle flame. "It means you'll get fat next year, sweetheart."  
  
Ali threw him a venomous look. "You know I'd cuff you over the head for this if you weren't holding a spoonful of molten metal, don't you?"  
  
"Yes," Draco replied serenely and poured the liquid lead into the water bowl. There was a brief hiss, a cloud of steam, and they were faced with another shapeless chunk of lead to interpret. Harry reached into the bowl to take it out, but let go with a yelp - he hadn't noticed there was a sharp spike on one end of the thing.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. "I believe you just got stung by the future. If that isn't a bad omen, I don't know what is."  
  
Harry sucked at his finger and noticed with a certain degree of smugness how Draco's cheeks coloured slightly. "Or it just means that you're a prick, and will remain one next year."  
  
Ali giggled, but Draco merely shrugged. "I've always said this has more to do with a Rorschach test than with Divination."  
  
Harry had no idea what the first half of the remark was about, but he understood well enough that the second part was a signal. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Ali, there's something we feel you sh- "  
  
Ali wasn't paying attention; she was checking her watch. "Less than half an hour until midnight. Should I switch on the radio?"  
  
Draco sighed. "Ali, darling, stop fretting. We've never missed the _Pummerin_ toll at midnight, and we won't miss it this year either. Please leave the radio alone for the moment, there's something Harry and I need to tell you."  
  
Ali grinned. "There's really no need to come out to me, you know, I kind of caught on about you two by now."  
  
"Ali, this isn't a joke." Harry had a bad feeling about this, but they had decided they'd give it a try, and he was determined to see it through; he knew this was more important to Draco than he was willing to admit. "There's something you don't know about us, and we don't want to keep it from you any longer."  
  
"Okay." Ali put her lead whale aside, but she still didn't seem overly serious. "Is the FBI after you? Or did they send you here on a witness protection program?"  
  
Harry and Draco exchanged a brief glance; there seemed to be no other way than the blunt approach. Draco reached into his sleeve and pulled out his wand. "Do you know what that is?"  
  
"It's a wooden stick." Ali had barely looked at the wand; she was focusing on Draco. "Is this some kind of test?"  
  
Draco held her gaze steadily. "It's a wand, Ali, and it's used to do magic with."   
  
Ali stared at him for a moment, then she burst out laughing. "So what you're trying to tell me is that you're a Fairy Godmother?" At Draco's blank look, she sighed. "You still haven't read the Pratchett books I gave you?"  
  
"I told you I'm not interested in fictional wizards and witches." Harry was quite impressed by Draco's patience. "The reason being, I know more about the subject than Mr Pratchett ever will, because I _am_ a wizard. So is Harry."  
  
It was obviously dawning on Ali that this wasn't some sort of prank, because her expression turned slightly worried. "Draco, are you feeling all right?"  
  
"Never better." Draco pointed his wand at Ali's lead whale on the table. "I didn't expect you to believe me. _Wingardium Leviosa_!"  
  
The chunk of metal rose into the air and hung there. Ali's eyed widened. "How did you do that? And please don't say 'magic', because I'm not a complete idiot, you know."  
  
"Sorry, Ali, that's the only answer we can give you." Harry reached for his own wand. " _Evanesco_." The piece of lead vanished right in front of Ali's face. She whipped around to face Harry; now she seemed angry.  
  
"All right, boys, this has stopped being funny. What are you doing here?"  
  
"We're trying to tell you that we both possess the ability to do magic," Draco replied. He still sounded calm, although Harry knew him well enough to realise that he wasn't pleased with Ali's reaction. "It's something we - and many others - were born with. The school Harry and I went to was a school for magical children; they get trained to use their inborn magic there."  
  
"The realisation that magic exists came as a bit of a shock for me too, believe me," Harry added. "Unlike Draco, who comes from an old wizarding family, I grew up among Mu- I mean, non-magical people, and I had no idea what I was until I got a letter from the school when I was eleven." He was pretty sure he'd taken the news better than Ali, although children probably had it easier in that regard.  
  
"Ahhh, I see." Ali was obviously trying to sound sarcastic, but her voice shook a bit. "So you went to school together to learn - what? Spells to turn frogs into princes? How to fly on a broomstick?"  
  
Draco sighed. "Yes to the broomsticks, no to the princes - animal-to-human Transfiguration is illegal, because the results are usually not pretty."  
  
"Illegal. Forbidden by the UN, I suppose?" Now she sounded angry again.  
  
"No, by the British Ministry of Magic. All right, this is getting us nowhere." Draco gave Harry a quick glance; when Harry merely shrugged, he continued, "What do I need to do to make you accept that I'm telling the truth? Make you fly around the room? Turn your hair green and your teeth blue? Just say the word, and I'll do it."  
  
Ali threw up her hands. "What I'd really like you to do right now is to go to the nearest hospital for a tox screen. Draco, what the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
Draco acted as if he hadn't heard her. "Just choose something." Harry wasn't sure whether to be impressed or annoyed by Draco's confidence that he would be able to do anything Ali asked of him, but he had agreed to let Draco handle this his way - he had known her much longer than Harry had, after all.  
  
"All right, fine!" Ali's voice had become rather loud; she picked up one of the as-yet untouched lead figurines and waved it under Draco's nose. "You can try changing this into a shape that makes sense, how about that?"  
  
"Not a problem." Draco pointed his wand at the hapless little lead shamrock, muttering under his breath. Harry was rather disappointed that he couldn't understand what Draco was saying; it would have been interesting to know which spell he used. The fact that he obviously didn't want Harry to hear it indicated that whatever he used wasn't strictly legal.  
  
Ali dropped the shamrock with a shriek when its surface began to bubble in her hand, although it didn't seem to give off any heat. Harry watched in fascination as the figurine lost its shape, twisted for a moment and then morphed into something that looked like a tiny replica of Ali, right down to the messy ponytail she wore tonight. It walked across the table towards her, opened its mouth and said in a metallic voice that still sounded remarkably like Ali's, "Do you believe me now?"  
  
Ali's mouth was hanging open, and from the way her eyes were bulging, it was already evident to Harry that their attempt to get through to her had failed. Again. Draco seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he gave her a worried look and reached out to touch her shoulder. "Ali, dear, are you al-"  
  
He never got to finish the question because she jerked away, made a strangled sound and ran from the room; a second later, they heard the door slam and the sound of hasty footsteps echo in the corridor.  
  
Harry and Draco looked at each other with equal expressions of dismay. Harry let out a deep sigh; so much for hoping third time would be the charm.   
  
"Same procedure as every year?"  
  
"That's not funny, Potter." Draco shot Harry a glare, but then sighed too. "I'm beginning to doubt this is ever going to work. No matter what we try, it always ends with her freaking out."  
  
He was trying to appear unperturbed, but Harry knew him well enough to see behind the facade. There was no time right now, though. "Look, let's discuss this later, we need to catch her before she's down the stairs. You'll do the honours?"  
  
Draco rose and brandished his wand. "She's _my_ ex, so I suppose I'd better."  
  
"Just the last ten minutes or so, mind, you don't want her to forget half her life."  
  
"Yes, I know." Draco didn't sound annoyed, merely a bit defeated as he went to follow Ali. "Tell you what, next time we try it at Christmas instead."  
  
  
  
  
 _fin_   
  



	5. Dear Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last future ficlet, set three years after the events of "Seven Days in June". 
> 
> At some point, you have to make a decision...

  
_June 5th, 2008_

 

 

It was well past ten p.m. when Harry stumbled through the door of this flat, tired enough to collapse on the spot. The meeting had gone on forever - towards the end, he had been wondering whether Shacklebolt was going to make them pull an all-nighter at Auror Headquarters. Harry knew he would never understand how a group of people who had all seen enough serious trouble to last them a lifetime could waste so much time on a matter that was of no consequence at all. Yet the upcoming reorganisation of their department had kept them all busy for weeks now, even if it wouldn't change a damned thing about the actual way the Aurors did their work.

Harry felt a twinge of resentment when he remembered how Shacklebolt had promised that those Aurors with families wouldn't have to work overtime during the next few weekends. Of course he didn't begrudge his colleagues the time they got to spend with their loved ones, but it meant that he would be doing another long weekend shift since he was officially single - and that was probably the heart of the matter.

While Harry kicked off his shoes and made a beeline for the sofa in the living room, he couldn't help counting the days since he'd last seen Draco and coming up with a rather alarming number. It had always been difficult to disappear for several days without telling anyone where he went, but now that he hadn't had more than one day off at a time for almost two months, it had become downright impossible. The closest long-distance Apparition point to Vienna was Prague, which meant five hours on the train and another half hour on the underground to reach Draco's flat. That was just too long to go back on the same day - Harry had tried it a few times, but the few hours with Draco he got out of it had always been spoiled by the fact that he was stressed and exhausted. He had even put his foot in his mouth once by mentioning in passing how much time he lost travelling back and forth, only to have Draco snap at him that he needn't bother in the future if it was too much trouble.

With a sigh, Harry flopped down onto the sofa, propped his feet up on the coffee table and Summoned a beer from the refrigerator. Draco would have scolded him for such plebeian behaviour, but Draco wasn't here, and would in all likeliness never be.

It had taken Harry a while to understand that Draco was dead serious about not returning to Britain. During the first months, he'd been convinced that if things worked out between them, he would be able to make Draco come with him one day. Now, after three years during which their relationship had seen plenty of ups and downs, he was glad that he had never mentioned the topic to Draco, because he now knew that Draco would have reacted very badly to the idea that Harry wanted to lure him back to a country that Draco no longer considered his home.

God, he was so tired of this. Why couldn't he just come home to someone in the evening like everybody else he knew? It wasn't so much the secrecy that was getting to him - he was pretty sure that Ron and Hermione had realised by now that he was seeing someone he didn't want to tell them about, and while he didn't like making them think that he didn't trust them, so far they didn't seem too upset about it. Of course, they had their own lives to live - they were a family, and no matter how close Harry still felt to them, he could never be a part of that. That was the real problem in the end: the person Harry wanted to share his life with was half a continent away, and the few stolen hours they got to spend together here and there just weren't enough any more.

It had come as a bit of a shock when he'd first realised that he really wanted to spend his life with Draco. He'd never mentioned it, of course - they had been together for almost three years, but Draco still seemed to treat their relationship with a kind of cautious reserve that shut Harry up whenever he was close to admitting just how much Draco meant to him by now.

Not that it had happened often during the last months. First Draco had been swamped in work, and now that he was having a quieter time of it (the upcoming European football championship, which was to be held in Austria, was scaring most tourists away from Vienna), Harry was caught up in the cursed department reorganisation and could barely get away. He couldn't even remember when they'd last had a whole day together during which neither of them had been cranky from stress or just plain tired.

At least, he hoped it was just that. The other, far more disquieting explanation for the distance Harry was feeling between them lately was that Draco was getting sick of him. He wasn't exactly keeping Harry at arm's length, but he seemed even more careful than usual not to let on what was going on behind the calm, slightly flippant facade he put up most of the time. Harry didn't really want to ponder it - the idea that Draco might want to break up with him hurt so much that he couldn't help asking himself if he had been stupid to ever get himself into this in the first place, when all he was likely going to get out of it was heartbreak.

Of course, if he ever mentioned _that_ , Draco would either laugh at him and call him a sentimental fool, or he would tell him in that scathing tone he was so good at that he couldn't help it if he wasn't worth the effort Harry had put into it. Given his mood lately, Harry found the latter option more likely.

And now it was Draco's birthday, and thanks to the never-ending meeting, Harry hadn't even been able to call him. Draco had badgered him into getting a mobile phone years ago, but of course it didn't work at the Ministry, and Draco had probably gone to bed by the time Harry came home tonight. (It had taken Harry a while to get used to the idea that the continent was an hour ahead and that Draco did _not_ appreciate having to answer the phone around midnight.)

With a sigh, Harry scrambled up from the couch and headed for the bathroom; he'd better get some sleep himself before another long day at work. The bathroom was next to the entrance door of his flat, and Harry almost stepped on the thick envelope on the doormat that he must have overlooked when he came in earlier. He picked it up with a frown; the letter had been pushed through the letter-box, which meant that it had arrived by Muggle post. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd got a letter that way.

Harry's heart skipped a beat when he took a closer look at it and recognised Draco's handwriting on the envelope.

Draco had never written him in the years they'd been together. He'd wanted Harry to get that mobile _because_ writing was so slow and impractical, especially when the sender lived in the Muggle world and the addressee among wizards, or vice versa. What did he have to tell Harry that was so important he had to put it in writing? Or was it just that the letter was about something that Draco didn't _want_ to discuss on the phone?

Harry sat down where he stood, in the hallway with his back against the bathroom door; when he tried to open the envelope, he found that his hands were trembling. He wanted to scold himself for over-reacting so stupidly, but he couldn't help it that his heart was in his throat. What if this was - what did they call it in those old Hollywood movies? A Dear John letter?

Taking a deep breath, Harry finally ripped the envelope open. There was a metallic clang on the floor tiles as something dropped out of it, startling him badly. He saw a flash of gold as the small item rolled away; if it hadn't been for his old Seeker reflexes, it would have disappeared under the shoe cupboard.

It was a plain gold ring, with an inscription on the inside. Squinting, Harry tried to make out the words, but they were barely readable any more, as if the ring had been worn for many years. At long last, he had to draw his wand and cast _Lumos_ so that he was finally able to read _Lucius & Narcissa - September 2nd, 1978_.

For a moment, Harry just sat and stared at the ring on his palm. From the size of it, it was clear that it had been made for a man, but why on earth would Draco send him his father's wedding ring?

It took him a while to remember that the letter likely held an answer to that question. The writing on the single piece of paper was scratchy and messy; Draco always said that three years of high-speed note-taking in the tour guide training programme had ruined his handwriting for good.

_Harry,_

_it seems quite obvious that we can't go on like this any longer; we barely get to see each other any more, and I can tell that you're getting just as sick of it as I am._

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself for what must inevitably follow such an opening. This was it, then - and how like Draco to make it sound as if this were something that Harry wanted too.

_I hope that your Gryffindor sensibilities will be able to cope with the fact that I had to resort to Dark Magic to work out a possible solution, but there was no way around it - there's just no other way to make such a complex enchantment work in a Dead Spot._

_Enclosed, you find my father's wedding ring. I suppose this is going to make you uncomfortable as well, but I had no other choice since the spell requires an object to which I have a strong personal attachment, and I'm definitely not giving you my iPod._

_I've managed to turn the ring into a kind of Portkey, but it's a bit different from the ones you're used to. I've enchanted it to take the person who activates it into my flat - my bedroom, to be precise, since it's the only room where you can be sure not to run into Ali. To activate it, you will need a bit of your blood (stop making a face) - three drops on the inside of the ring should do. Then tap it with your wand and cast "Portus" as if you were creating a normal Portkey. It will be keyed to you via the blood so that nobody else can use it; all you need to do is put it on, and off you go. I'd make a Lord of the Rings joke here, but it would probably be lost on you._

_Keep in mind, though, that the Portkey won't work everywhere, but only in the place where you originally activated it, so you can't use it to get away if you get mauled by a rabid admirer at the Ministry. On the plus side, if you use it on the other side of the connection, i. e. in my bedroom, it will take you back to the point of activation. I'd suggest a room in your flat where visitors aren't likely to go (I should hope that your bedroom qualifies). You can then go back and forth between your place and mine, and I no longer have to listen to your whining about the hassle of long-distance Apparition and crowded trains._

_Feel free to drop by when you have a moment, I'm usually at home in the evening since the city is already in a state of football-related emergency, even if the actual apocalypse is still a few days away._

_D._

Harry felt as if his mind had gone completely blank when he finished the letter. He found himself getting up and walking into the bathroom before he even knew that he was doing it; a moment later, he was standing in his bedroom with the ring in one hand and a razor blade in the other. This wasn't something he needed to think about; he didn't care what kind of Dark Magic Draco had used to make this little miracle possible (and given how difficult Harry still found it to cast more than the basic spells in Vienna, he couldn't even imagine how much effort it must have cost Draco). All that mattered right now was that Draco had willingly given him free access to his life. You didn't do that for a person you didn't care about, did you?

Harry sat down on the bed, placed the ring on the bedside table and held his hand over it, then pressed the razor blade against the base of his thumb. The sharp sting made him realise too late that he'd overdone it a bit - instead of the necessary three drops, the ring was now lying in a small red puddle, and Harry barely managed to keep the blood from dripping on the carpet. Cursing, he fished for his wand and cast a Healing Charm; it left a narrow white scar behind, and Harry knew he was never going to hear the end of it when Draco noticed it.

Then he turned his attention back to the ring and saw that the puddle of blood was gone, as if the ring had absorbed it completely. Harry felt a slight chill at the base of his spine, but he didn't let himself dwell on it; instead, he tapped the ring with his wand and spoke the spell.

The ring seemed to glow for a split-second, but it was over so quickly that Harry wasn't sure whether he hadn't been imagining it. It was slightly warm to his touch when he picked it up, and Harry tried not to think of its first owner when he slipped it on his finger.

The sensation was nothing like using a Portkey; instead of the familiar jerk behind his navel, Harry felt as if he were falling with the ring on his finger pulling him forward. Before he really knew what was happening, however, his feet were on solid ground again. He stumbled over something and barely managed to regain his balance; only when the thing he'd tripped over hissed at him, he realised that he'd almost landed on top of Max the cat, who had been curled up on Draco's bedside rug.

Because he was in Draco's bedroom, and Draco was sleeping on his bed, fully clothed on top of the covers, as if he had fallen asleep while he'd been waiting for Harry to show up.

Harry suddenly felt a lump in his throat that made it difficult to breathe; he could only hope that Draco wouldn't wake up before he'd pulled himself together. Max was still growling, and Harry crouched down to pet him apologetically. The cat remained stock-still, a picture of feline indignation, and let Harry stroke him as if he were granting him a favour. He was very old now and had become so frail that he was officially allowed to sleep in Draco's bedroom. Harry felt the bones underneath when he ran his hand over the soft fur, and he was once more reminded that Max was approaching the end of his life. Draco knew it too, of course, and he acted rather indifferent about it, but Harry wasn't fooled; he was sure it would hit Draco pretty hard when Max died.

At long last, Max graced him with a purr, and Harry was about to give him a final scratch behind the ears when Draco's groggy voice came from the bed.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up; Draco was sitting on the bed, his eyes puffy with sleep and a few strands of black hair falling into his face. At a loss for words, Harry sat down on the bedside and reached out to brush them away before Draco could do it himself.

Draco smiled when the ring on Harry's finger caught the light of the bedside lamp, and something in Harry's chest gave a funny little flutter. "I see you got my letter."

"Yes." Harry let his hand drop, uncertain how to react. "I - I wanted to come over to wish you a happy birthday."

Draco's eyes lit up, making him look very young for a moment. "Do I get a present?"

It only now occurred to Harry that he could indeed have brought Draco's birthday present with him. "Uh... I'm afraid I left it at home - I was in a bit of a hurry, you know..."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Were you now?"

"Yes," Harry replied firmly, the momentary awkwardness forgotten. He was in Draco's bedroom because Draco wanted him here, whether he'd ever said it aloud or not, so what was there left to worry about? "I'll make it up to you, though."

Draco's smile turned predatory at this, an expression that never failed to make Harry's stomach flip. "I should hope so." He brushed a quick kiss on Harry's lips, but pulled back with a grimace before Harry could lean into it. "But first you're taking a shower, you're practically reeking of Ministry."

It was Harry's turn to give him a suggestive grin now. "Care to join me?"

He stood up and held out a hand towards Draco, who took it immediately and let Harry pull him up from the bed. His fingers went to the buttons of Harry's shirt, and Harry felt a familiar warm sensation spread in the pit of his belly. He had come to love those moments when they took the time to slowly undress each other; there was something incredibly intimate about letting another person help you out of your clothes. He pushed his hands under the hem of Draco's t-shirt, revelling in the feeling of smooth skin under his touch, but even more in the prospect that he was going to feel it so much more often in the future.

There was a look on Draco's face that Harry hardly ever got to see - open and unguarded, without a trace of his usual nonchalance. Together with the warmth of his hands on Harry's skin, it made Harry momentarily forget about the need to weigh his words.

"You could come with me to get your present, you know." He felt Draco's posture stiffen ever so slightly and added quickly, "Just the two of us in my flat, nobody will know."

He wasn't sure why he wanted this so much, but it seemed to him that the idea of Draco being a part of his life was never going to feel real until he was able to take him to his home, to make love to him in his own bed. He only hoped that Draco understood and didn't think Harry was trying to coerce him into something he wasn't comfortable with.

Draco had relaxed again, and although his expression didn't give away how he felt about the suggestion, at least he didn't seem upset.

He didn't look Harry in the face, but kept his eyes on the buttons of his shirt when he answered evenly, "Ask me again in a few days, all right? I'll think about it."

He didn't sound surprised; now that he thought about it, Harry realised that Draco must have expected the request ever since he'd found a way to create a magical way of transportation to Vienna. He was only now beginning to grasp the magnitude of the risk Draco had taken with this, and for a moment the lump in his throat was back.

Thankfully, Draco didn't give him time to get sentimental. With a grin, he pushed Harry's shirt over his shoulders and ran a finger down his bare chest. "Tell you what, you should wear that ring on a chain around your neck when you're not using it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "That's another Lord of the Rings joke, isn't it? I'll really have to watch it one of these days."

"You can borrow my DVDs," Draco offered somewhat muffled since Harry was pulling his t-shirt over his head. "Now, however" - he dropped the t-shirt and shook out his hair, eyes sparkling mischievously - "we have better things to do."

 

 

 

 

_**Fin**_


End file.
